


...The Heart Grow Fonder

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-23
Updated: 2008-03-23
Packaged: 2019-03-14 13:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: The pain and the longing of separation is only just surmountable by the joy and ecstasy of reuniting.





	...The Heart Grow Fonder

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first 500+ words of this longhand in a notebook while waiting in O'Hare Airport for my plane to PDX. I was also inspired to a point by [this lovely fic](http://community.livejournal.com/anyones_face/562.html) by [](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/)**ebonybeach**. So there's definitely a travel/separation theme here, which descends rapidly into… well. You know. 
> 
> Also, happy Spring. Also also, I am not a big texter, so forgive my lack of knowledge of the lingo.
> 
> I changed "kilometer" to "mile" per [](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/)**ebonybeach**. 'Cause it bugged me.
> 
> Disclaimer: If you really think I'm HF, I'm flattered, but I'm not her; therefore the characters are not actually mine.

It was as if he had not seen her just last week, as if he had been clear across the world in the remotest corner possible, but it had been such an extraordinarily long week he might as well have been. The closer London came in his sights—courtesy the decreasing mile count on the signs by the roadside—the steadier, more grounded he felt. Every trip was like this, and as much as he knew she hated it, as much as he hated it himself, the more he downplayed the effect her proximity had on him, the better he felt, both in the short term and the long.

The short, of course, was that the trips were never very long and before he knew it he was back, happy to be in her arms.

The long was slightly more troubling in its implications: while he loved her and nothing short of a felony could change that, he didn't like being so dependent on one person for his well-being.

So lost was he in thought that suddenly it seemed as if the outskirts of town had popped up around him without his notice. In just a few minutes, a few agonising minutes, he'd be home, and she'd be waiting.

Sometimes his arrival caught her unawares, if he chose to head home without calling first. He admitted to himself that he liked that best: the glow that spread over her features when he entered the room unexpectedly after a week or so away was absolutely priceless.

Having her wait in anticipation had its pluses too: she might have dinner ready and waiting (never mind that it was usually takeaway), or, if too late, his things all ready for him in the bathroom for a shower, she all ready for a night of anticipated reunion.

Truly it was a tough call.

Tonight it was the former. He cut the lights as he pulled in along the kerb, far out of sight from the view from the house, then switched off the engine. He grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat, his garment bag from the boot, and headed into what he quickly realised was an empty house.

There was an option he had failed to consider: that she would not be at home.

 _Ah well_ , he thought. He could still surprise her. He placed his things out of sight and headed for the shower, washing quickly, shaving, then going over to fetch his mobile from his suit jacket pocket, intent on calling her as if to advise of his imminent arrival.

As he palmed the mobile, it vibrated, indicating an incoming text message:

_know u r busy. didnt want to call. just home. whats ur eta?_

The corner of his mouth curled up playfully. She had no idea he was home.

 _Will meet you in bedroom ASAP_ , he replied, his finger hunting and pecking the words out.

Not two minutes later he heard her footsteps thundering up the stairs. He stepped out of view as she threw wide the bedroom door, racing in, tearing her shirt off in the process. She had on a pair of form-fitting denims, a cream-coloured satin bra, and her hair pulled up into a sloppy ponytail. Heaven on earth.

As she was unfastening the button at her waist, he slid up quietly behind her and drew a finger up the middle of her bare back. She gasped, seemingly jumping a mile high. "Oh!" she said, twirling to face him. "You bloody bastard!"

He laughed throatily, and as he pulled her close, encircling her waist with eager arms, she delivered a futile pound to his chest with her fist as he captured her mouth with his own.

Between kisses, she managed to express with breathy gasps how much she'd missed him. He reciprocated a little more actively, impatiently thrusting the fingers of one hand under the waistband of her trousers. She hastened to pull down the fly, and he was able to push the jeans down, lowering his hand to cup then grab her bottom quite forcefully, pulling her into him. His hand then continued around, allowing his fingers to tease along the elastic of her pants to where legs and bottom meet.

She moaned, then whispered, "I'm a mess…."

"Don't care," he replied, quieting her again with the force of his kiss, raising his hand to tug at her cotton pants, surprising himself when the side seam split. She laughed briefly as the destroyed pants fell to the floor.

"I guess you don't," she said with a sigh.

With no further impediment to be found, he bent in order to lift her up; she took her cue and wrapped her legs around his waist in order to be carried off to the bed. Any other night he might have felt more adventurous, settling on the edge of the heavy wooden bureau or even up against the wall, but after the day and the drive he knew his remaining strength and energy needed to be dedicated to making love to her, not fighting gravity.

He kneeled on the bed and gently lowered her to sit upon the soft linens, and once she was safely down, he released her to put his hands to better use, skimming his fingers over her soft skin, his thumbs teasing the pink peaks of her breasts. As she laid back to rest against the pillows, she pulled him forward by his shoulders to urge him into place over her, then arched up to kiss him once more. With every caress of her mouth, every flick of her tongue, his blood turned to fire; he had never known a woman who could cause in him such a sure and sudden reaction. He was certainly ready, could have easily driven forward and ended the agony of a week apart, but he also savoured pleasing her and didn't want that to end just yet. With her fingers playing along his shoulders, nails raking in his hair, he supported himself on one forearm, ran his free hand down over her hips, belly, then pressed three fingertips firmly into the soft mound between her legs.

She broke the kiss to draw in a sharp breath, bucking her hips up into him; ever so slightly he kept his distance. She raised her chin and exhaled, and with her warm breath skating against his cheek he placed his lips upon her throat, grazing his teeth on her skin, moving his fingers downward, gliding over her, but not into her. She gasped again, her breath going ragged.

"Don't make me beg," she sighed. "Come on."

"Not yet," he said, gentle fingers working up and down with slightly more pressure.

A frustrated, strangled sound emanated from her throat. "You're terrible," she whimpered, writhing against him. "Torturer."

"Torturer?" he said quietly into her ear, retreating his fingers from her.

"Mark," she rasped.

The pads of his fingers lightly brushed over the sensitive bud of nerves, to which she gasped again. "You were saying?" he teased.

It appeared to take great effort for her to open her eyes, but she did. "If that's the way you want it," she began unsteadily, "you've got it." He felt her own fingers upon his, pushing them away. She then grabbed him firmly, gripping him within her fist, and began pumping him with such intensity that he went quite dizzy, sinking to the side lest he be unable to hold himself up any further. She assaulted his mouth with her own again, nipping and sucking on his lower lip in a manner that she full knew made him go wild.

He was so busy keeping control over the urge to drive into her to allow himself his climax that it didn't occur to him that this was not actually her revenge. No, that didn't happen until her ministrations ceased.

He opened his eyes. He was on his back, painfully, achingly erect, and she was reclined beside him, feigning indifference (at least he hoped she was feigning) by looking off into the distance. "Bridget," he croaked, panting for air. 

"Yes?" she asked, not looking to him. Her breath, he noticed, was still quite uneven.

He reached for her; she nonchalantly rolled to face away from him.

"Bridget," he said plaintively. "Don't do this to me."

"Do what?" she asked, her voice all innocence.

He sighed heavily. "You win, all right?"

She looked back at him over her shoulder, an evil glint in her eye.

"As long as we're clear on that," she said smugly.

How he'd missed her. "Crystal."

In the matter of a moment he sprung up, pressing her down to the bed, nuzzling into her neck, spreading her legs with his hands.

Into her ear he growled, "To the victor goes the spoils."

Again she laughed then sighed as his fingers resumed the exploration of her inner thighs. He still had a week to make up for, and he took his time with fingers and mouth alike, reacquainting himself with every inch of her body as he'd begun earlier. She squirmed beneath him, making soft noises of pleasure, taking hold of the bed linens between her fingers. As much as he enjoyed what he was doing, there came a point when he could no longer contain himself, so he grasped her hips and lifted her gently; she arched up to accommodate him. He bent over her; resting on his elbows and cupping her breasts in his hands, he drove forward into her from behind, brushing his sweat-dampened temple against her hair. She cried out his name, supporting herself on her own forearms, pushing back into him to intensify the effect for both of them.

Release did not take long to find for either; afterwards he embraced her around her waist and held her close to him as he fell to his side, his breathing laboured, his cheek resting against her shoulder. He could feel the exhaustion of his day, his week, overcoming him and threatening to pull him under the veil of sleep, but he was at last content. In the words of the Bard, parting was indeed sweet sorrow, but so long as he had a reunion to look forward to, he could bear the brief absence, the distance between them.

She put it far more succinctly: "I hate when you leave, but do _so_ love when you return."

_The end._


End file.
